


Some fucking braveheart medal (or something)

by Follevolo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 4x11, Gallavich, M/M, ianxmickey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:03:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Follevolo/pseuds/Follevolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- … Any regrets yet?</p>
<p>Ian couldn’t look at him. He was staring blankly at the dirty floor. Mickey got closer to him, and cupped his face in his hands, forcing him to raise his eyes and catch his gaze. He was smiling so truly, so beautifully, so peacefully, Ian almost wanted to cry.</p>
<p>- Nah, man. – he answered, his voice dizzy but strong – never been so fucking sure of something in my whole life.</p>
<p>(I would call it the after-party after the after-party after the christening)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some fucking braveheart medal (or something)

Hey guys so I'm posting here all my stupid rambles and I don't know if it's necessary to make an introduction to all of them, sooo...  
Yeah. Just wanted to say hi: hi! Thanks for the kudos and the comments and thanks even for the hits, cos you gave me a chance! Lots of love!

Em.

 

*

 

\- So… - Mickey smirked at Ian, his blue eyes shining bright under his always so expressive eyebrows – what now? Am I getting some fucking braveheart medal or something?

Ian made a face, seriously pondering the question for a moment. His lips were buried under dirt and blood, but Mickey could still see the happiest and sweetest of his smiles rising from behind, and he suddenly remembered, all at once, why he was doing this. He remembered the boy who busted in his room something like four years ago. He remembered how he tried to kiss him after. He was so innocent and sweet and different. He scared the shit out of him, because since day one he couldn’t force himself not to care about him, like he was a fucking puppy abandoned on the street. He tried so hard to ignore that strange feeling that was growing in his stomach when he was with him: at the beginning it was just, like, a need. He needed to have him, physically. That’s how he explained it to himself: it was all chemistry. He needed him like a drug addict needed blow. A smoker, cigarettes.

Eventually, the thing, whatever it was, started to slip out of his control. Not like cigarettes or drugs or alcohol, anymore. More like air. And other needs started to show up, too many to even attempt on counting them: he needed to see him, even without having sex with him. He needed to talk to him, to look at him while he was unaware of his gaze. He needed to fuck him, of course, but it wasn’t mechanical nor only passionate anymore. It was caring, and slow, and funny sometimes, and soft some others.

He needed to protect him. He needed to know he was the only one. He needed him to be happy. He needed him to be safe.

He needed him to be. With him.

\- Kev! – Ian walked into the Alibi with a glorious expression, and with a theatrical gesture he addressed the bartender.

\- What can I do for you, carrot top? – the man asked with a knowing devilish smile.

\- Shut the fuck up, motherfucker – Mickey blurted out in panic, threatening him with the most frightening look he could manage to put on while he was thanking God he was so covered up in blood no one could possibly notice how much he was pathetically blushing – you already owe me one, I wouldn’t joke about it if I were you.

Kev raised his arms in a universal sign of surrender and blinked at Ian, whispering something like “I’ll explain later” within his teeth. Ian smiled and nodded just a little before changing subject:

\- Give us a bottle of Jack – he ordered, turning around to look at Mickey in the eyes – we have to celebrate something.

Later, obviously, they were on the roof. The bottle, obviously, already empty.

\- So… - Ian needed to ask, and Mickey was willing to answer, but they had waited on porpoise to be drunk before starting to talk. It was some kind of silent, mutual understanding between them, that night.

\- … Any regrets yet?

Ian couldn’t look at him. He was staring blankly at the dirty floor. Mickey got closer to him, and cupped his face in his hands, forcing him to raise his eyes and catch his gaze. He was smiling so truly, so beautifully, so peacefully, Ian almost wanted to cry.

\- Nah, man. – he answered, his voice dizzy but strong – never been so fucking sure of something in my whole life.

Ian rested his front on his, glaring him from under his long eyelashes. Their noses were touching softly, and they were breathing slowly and steady into each other’s mouths. They were lost in that infinite, overwhelming look, blue in blue, ocean in the sky, not knowing anymore where the horizon line was.

\- I’m so fucking proud of you, Mickey Milkovich – Ian’s lips were trembling, his voice shaky and unsure, his eyes wet but firm in his – I’m so damn proud. And… and thankful. And sorry. You are no coward, Mickey. You are the fucking bravest man I know. You are a fucking rockstar. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying. I think I’m kind of shocked. Did this really happened? Is this even r…

He couldn’t get to finish, because Mickey was suddenly eating his bottom lip.

-Ow! Go easy on me, my face is already fucked up enough – Ian protested with a laugh.

\- Pain makes it real, pussy.

\- Idiot.

\- Fag.

\- Says the “I just want everybody to know I’m fucking gay” guy. 

\- Fuck off, no need to repeat all the fucking speech.

\- It was a great speech, Milk.

\- Who?

-… Now that you’re out of the closet you really need to study gay culture more, or you’ll never get laid.

\- I have you for that, don’t need anyone else, thank you so much.

They were still and forever laughing, and flirting, and resting their heads together. Still and forever smirking, and dreaming, and glancing, and blinking, and it was one moment, one of that rare moments. Everything felt so amazingly fitting. It was pure perfection, Ian thought while he was staring at Mickey’s soft smile. He was staring at his boyfriend, the love of his messy life, who had just basically risked death for him. Who went looking for him. Who took him home. Who left his wife for him. Who moved in with him. Who waited him up every night. Mickey Milkovich, the badass, the dirtiest white guy in America, preparing pancakes in his kitchen. Kissing him in a gay bar. Coming out in front of his father. Sleeping in his bed. 

And they were still standing. Still wishing for more.

\- Mick?

\- Yeah, firecrotch.

\- I love you.


End file.
